


Anhimmeln

by silkinsilence



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: ...ish?, Age Difference, Bondage, Choking, Coitus Interruptus, Collars, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, F/F, Finger Sucking, Grief/Mourning, Gun Kink, Humiliation, Master/Pet, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Torture, Oral Fixation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding Crops, Safeword Use, Semi-Public Sex, Tail Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9588080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: Ana holding invisible reins; Angela on bended knee.  |  Anamercy shorts, mostly smut.





	1. Paperwork

**Author's Note:**

> I don't like posting a lot of short works individually, so I'm collecting up my Anamercy fics and throwing them in one place. 
> 
> Credit to [Overboard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Overboard/works) for title inspiration.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-public sex, D/S, finger sucking

The space under the desk is dark and cramped. Her calves fell asleep what feels like hours ago. Even with the rug underneath them, her knees are aching.

And her _jaw..._

The hand returns to her scalp to smooth her hair and gently scratch along her part. Like she's being petted, like she's a dog. This is perverted, and she can't get enough of it. The soft fingers on her head are enough to reinvigorate her efforts.

Ana is all around her. She is all she sees, tastes, smells, feels. The hot wet musk on her tongue is every bit as delicious and intoxicating now as it was when this meeting started, whenever that was. She moves her mouth and lips eagerly, desperately, sucking and licking whatever she can find. Her nose is buried in dark, coarse hair. When she remembers to inhale, her breaths are shuddering things, pulled in along with the scent of sweat and the faint aroma of tea that always seems to shroud her mentor.

She cannot technically get drunk on this, she knows, but kneeling under Ana's desk and eating her out while she deals with some tedious affair is a thousand times better than an alcoholic high anyway.

Angela pulls back in order to work her jaw, ease the cramping. She knows she'll only get a few seconds of rest, and sure enough, soon the hand on her head is tightening its grip on her hair until tears spring into her eyes. She leans forward again, giving herself back over to the ache of her jaw and cheeks, the soreness of her tongue.

She clings to one of Ana's legs for support as if wanting (absurdly) to be even closer. She buries her tongue again into the other woman's folds, the way made easy by her own saliva and her mistress's slick. The familiar taste fills her mouth again. She noses at Ana's clit. She is sloppy and desperate here, everything she is not when working over the operating table. She will repeat this, pulling back to suckle Ana's clit, laving her tongue over her hole, using her mouth in any way she knows how and any way she can think of, until Ana comes again, until Ana decides she has served well enough.

The first few orgasms were relatively easy. Now, whatever number they're on (eight? nine? they're all blurs of ache and heat), Angela has to _work_ for them. The careful hand rests on her head, and the sound of voices above the desk is only a background murmur, punctuated by the clinking of teacup on saucer as Ana drinks.

Angela recognizes the voice of one of the two men on the other side of the desk. Agent Chairak. Two weeks ago she sutured his intestines back together after he was gunned down in Warsaw, and now she's not two feet away from him, desperately drawing reactions from her mistress, hidden only by wood and silence.

She clenches. _Gott,_ but if she isn't wet too, as aroused and wanting as Ana with none of the control or resolution. She's been forbidden from touching herself, so however much she wants to reach down and grind against her palm, she resists. This is for Ana, not her, and she so desperately wants to prove that she can be a good girl.

She lets her eyes wander upwards. Up the blue military jacket and the shirt underneath it, up onto the regal curves of that proud face. Angela's gaze lingers on the tattoo, on the firm set of Ana's lips, the sweep of her silky dark hair. The older woman seems, for all intents and purposes, completely focused on the meeting. There is nothing in her face or posture to suggest what is happening under the desk.

Ana looks down, just for a moment, just quickly enough to catch Angela's eye. She drops her attention again, cheeks burning, feeling as if she broke an unspoken rule. The transgression inspires her to redouble her efforts. Tongue and teeth and lips, worshiping at the shrine of a woman she does not deserve.

It proves enough. Ana offers a small rotation of her hips. Once, twice, and she finishes, flooding Angela's mouth. And even then, her calm face does not falter; her eyelids flutter, just for an instant, the only tell of the pleasure she must surely feel.

In the aftermath, the movements of her tongue slowing, Angela makes the mistake of groaning with relief when she's able to relax her jaw. The sound is not loud, not really, but it's loud enough. Above her head, she thinks the conversation falters.

But above her head is no longer her chief concern in a few moments. The hand that has been resting so placidly on her scalp becomes much more forceful, dragging her back by the hair, out from the valley between Ana's thighs. Then the fingers leave her hair and fix her by the jaw instead. A finger thrusts itself none-too-gently into her mouth.

Eager to please, to make up for her mistake, Angela wraps her tongue around the digit and sucks. She's silently reprimanded again when the hand digs into her jaw, forcing her mouth open. Ana's intentions become clear when she inserts another finger. She spreads the two and forces a stretch into Angela's lips. Then a third, then a fourth.

Angela is panting, moving her tongue about everything offered her. Her heart beats faster at the thought of what comes next. She is sparking, on-edge, lewd and wanting. She positions her knees on either side of Ana's calf and grinds out what friction she can while her mouth is busy.

Ana fits the thumb between her lips at the same moment that she presses a cruel booted foot roughly onto Angela's cunt. It takes an effort not to cry out, to beg for more. The five fingers in her mouth seek and stroke her palate and her tongue and—

 _There._ Down the back of her throat. Angela gags against her will, trying futilely to stifle the sound. Her stomach and throat both roil, but she is dripping wet and wanting as Ana mercilessly abuses her tender clit and folds with the heel of her boot.

She comes like that, on the verge of retching. The sounds are muffled on her mistress's hand, but they are there nonetheless. Angela thinks, through the daze of bliss, that the two on the other side of the desk must know. They must. The next time she sees them in the medbay, they will look at her and _know._

The thought has her burning again.

Ana's boot moves in slow circles before she removes it together. The fingers pull out too, Angela relieved and disappointed in equal parts to see them go. She catches Ana's hand in a rare moment of daring and presses a kiss to the palm.

_Thank you._

The fingers stroke her lips, her cheeks, brush her bangs back from her forehead. For a few wonderful seconds that is all there is, soft caresses on her skin and the warmth of the afterglow.

Then the hand is on the back of her head again, gently but insistently guiding her mouth back onto Ana. Angela goes without even a thought of complaint. The ache in her jaw is nothing. She will do this for another hour, for days, for as long as Ana bids her,

and she will love it.


	2. Cock It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gunplay, oral fixation

The blaster has finally started to feel natural in her hands. Still she is averse to the idea of it, but after weeks of practice she has become more and more comfortable with the physical thing. She hasn't had cause to use it in the field yet, only on Athena's training bots.

They cry out with pain, and Angela hates the sound. If it were up to her, she would mute them. But Ana insists on keeping the noise. It is a reminder of what they are doing, she says. The only way to stay human on the battlefield is to remember that.

Her mentor is the reason she looks forward to these practices. While she still loathes the pistol, and even more hates the cries of the bots, Ana's husky voice in her ear and a guiding hand on her shoulder more than makes up for it.

She's able to hit an oncoming target easily now. It's the ones at an angle, just in her peripheral vision, that she struggles with. And now, as she pivots and shoots, she misses one of her marks by a good five degrees.

" _Scheisse_ ," she mutters without thinking. Then she feels warmth rush into her face as she turns to the woman standing next to her, hoping she didn't hear, hoping she did.

But of course Ana did hear; her ears are as sharp as her eyes. And her eyebrow is cocked as she looks her pupil up and down before she clicks her tongue.

"Language, Angela."

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, casting her gaze to the floor and trying to look more contrite than eager. Ana has told her before that eagerness becomes her, but Angela isn't sure she agrees. Besides, it isn't much of a punishment if she begs for it.

"A poor performance. You're still treating the gun as a foreign object. It's not. It's an extension of you. Here—"

She imperiously holds out one gloved hand. Angela, unable to meet those searing eyes, rushes to hand over her blaster. She doesn't know exactly what to expect, but she knows it will be worth it. With Ana, it always is.

"You need to be comfortable around it. You're entrusting the weapon with your life." Ana turns the safety on and studies the weapon. Perhaps she finds it amusingly small and powerless compared to the heft of her rifle.

"I'm entrusting my team with my life," Angela dares to correct.

Ana laughs. "Your team? Your team will have more worries than looking out for you. No, Angela. In the field, your life belongs to  _this._ "

She steps closer, into Angela's space, almost pressed against her back. She brings the harsh smell of coffee and something flowery with her. Surely Angela could get off on that alone. Indeed, she's already tense and keyed-up enough that when Ana brings a hand to her jaw, she nearly shudders.

Ana laughs, low and smoky. She runs her gloved fingers over Angela's lips before forcing the leather into her mouth.

"Have you been distracted all this time? You'll never learn to shoot if your mind isn't in it."

Of course she's been distracted. How could she not be, with Ana standing beside her? This woman commands her attention and awe all the time, intentionally or not. The tattoo, the blue jacket, the black hair falling down her back; it is enough to hypnotize anyone, and Angela is no exception.

But she cannot respond, given her current situation, the press of leather-clad fingers against her teeth and tongue. She holds very still and lets Ana explore her mouth. She hopes she knows where this is going, and she is suddenly very glad that there is nobody else on the practice range.

Her suspicions are confirmed after a few moments when Ana sighs, pulls out her fingers, and lifts her other hand instead. The muzzle of the blaster presses crudely against Angela's lips. She expects it to be cold, but it isn't.

"Do you trust it, Angela? It is a part of you."

_I trust you._

Angela closes her eyes and opens her mouth. She tastes iron under her tongue. She sucks on the thing, memorizes its shape, feels her jaw ache with the stretch as Ana pushes it insistently further and further. Angela's heart is going too fast. The safety is on, yes, but  _still..._ a trigger pull and her life would end. She doesn't want to die, certainly not on the practice range as a victim of her own gun, but when it is Ana pulling the trigger she doesn't mind so much.

The other hand is carding through her hair, stroking her scalp. Ana's voice is murmuring low and meaningless into her ear. Angela shivers and sways.

Her teeth clink against the barrel. The taste is hard and harsh. It is too big, and now her mouth begins to truly hurt. Ana lets her stay like that, arousal and discomfort blending into pain, before the gun pushes too far.

Angela's eyes fly open, she gags, and suddenly her mouth is free. She breathes, relishing the emptiness, feeling a hand rubbing circles into her back.

"Are you all right,  _habibi_?"

The endearment makes her smile, is enough to diminish all the discomfort in the world. She nods, not trusting her own voice at the moment.

"Let's try another round when you're ready."

The blaster is pressed back into her fingers. Angela numbly accepts it, vaguely noticing the wetness and realizing that it's (ugh) her saliva.

The door at the far end of the practice range bursts open, revealing that outlaw—that  _cowboy—_ that Commander Reyes has taken under his wing. Jesse McCree.

Angela is unhappy to be interrupted, especially by him, but Ana grins and spreads her arms.

"Jesse! Come for another foolish challenge?"

"You know it," he says. He takes in Angela's red face and heaving breaths and smiles. "Been working hard, huh?"

She blushes even more furiously and attempts to wipe the pistol surreptitiously on her shirt.


	3. City Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bondage, teasing

Her office is dark when she gets back. The Swiss base is not her favorite, but she does appreciate the size of the room. In the daytime it is elegant, too, filled with polished wooden furniture. She raised an eyebrow when she first saw it. She's a soldier, not a scholar or a politician, and all the fanciness feels like overdoing it. The office reminds her of Switzerland in that way.

The country itself is beautiful; she can't deny that, but somehow it all feels fake. The mountains with their white crowns and the turquoise lakes are all too picturesque, sights that belong on images and not in real life. They are too overwhelming in person, and she finds the mountains claustrophobic.

She sighs as she throws her coat over the desk and surveys the lights outside. Zurich below is like a sea of stars, lit up in red and white luminance. She doesn't mind standing in the dark; turning the office lights on would make it that much harder to admire.

"Do you enjoy the view?" she asks. There are several moments of silence, punctuated only by a faint buzzing, and then a muffled whimper. Ana chuckles. Cruel, perhaps, but she knows that her company enjoys it.

"Oh, of course. How thoughtless of me."

She strides to the other side of the desk. Her chair is turned to face the windows. She leans against it and observes the person seated there.

Angela is naked against the leather, wrists bound to the arms, her ankles tied as well. Ana is particularly proud of the lengths of rope knotted about her breasts. An effort, but undoubtedly worth it now.

Ana gently unties the blindfold, careful not to yank Angela's hair. Her ponytail is rumpled. Ana imagines her throwing her head back, arching her back and grinding her hips into nothing. Has that been how the previous hour passed for her?

Angela's eyes are unfocused at first when they meet Ana's. She blinks, getting used to the relative light. Ana sees the colors of the city outside the windows reflected in her irises. Beautiful little Angela, content to sit and imagine the world staring at her.

Ana toys with the straps of the ball gag for a little longer. Angela is making muffled sounds, her eyes pleading, but if she lasted this long she can last a few moments more. Before Ana left for dinner, she was careful to leave a button within reach of Angela's bare bound feet. Throughout the meal she was thinking of her little plaything in here, waiting for a buzz on her communicator that never came.

She lets go of the strap without releasing the gag, and she cherishes the groan that Angela releases.

"Patience."

The ropes are tight enough to leave marks, but nothing permanent. She traces the dip of Angela's throat, feels her swallow under her fingers, traces her collarbone and tugs on her stiff nipples. The noises are a constant now, whimpers and moans muffled by the gag. Ana is certain that if it were not in, Angela would be pleading.

The leather is damp between Angela's thighs. Ana strokes her clit once, twice, earns a strangled cry. Her fingers circle the base of the vibrator, teasing, offering no more sensation or friction than the chair would have been able to provide.

At last she undoes the gag, carefully sliding the ball back out. Angela moves her jaw in circles, her head slumping with numb relief. Then, when she's recovered, she dares to look upward again.

"Please—"

"Did you come at all?"

Angela shakes her head. The color rises in her cheeks. Desperation looks so cute on her. Ana imagines her trying to get off for the past hour, unable to come from the vibrator alone. It's an intoxicating image. Perhaps Angela isn't the only one wet.

"Well," Ana sighs, leaning in for a kiss, "I suppose I can do something about that."


	4. Just the Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela mourning post-Ana "dying."

She loses someone on the operating table five days after she gets the news. It isn't her fault, not really; the injuries were severe and the agent was mostly dead by the time she was on the table anyway. But Angela rips the bloody gloves off her hands and staggers back to her room to throw up.

She's never reacted so viscerally to surgery before. In med school, the first time she saw an operation, her reaction was interest rather than disgust. All red and pink and glistening. The human body, a puzzle to be opened up and rearranged, life and death resting on the edge of a scalpel.

If she'd been there, she would have saved her. She would have dug out every bullet, stitched every wound shut, deployed the prototype system she's been developing on the side.

But she wasn't there, and they don't even have a body. Ana Amari, missing in action and presumed dead. A transport that came home without her. Angela running to meet someone who wasn't there.

After the failed surgery, Angela takes time off for the first time since joining Overwatch. All the vacation days she's saved up, refusing to miss work when life was on the line, she spends in her small, dark room in the barracks. Apparently this is what it takes to get her away from work: the fear that she's more a liability at the operating table than she is away from it.

 _You work too hard,_ a warm voice crackles in her ears.  _You'll burn yourself out, habibi, and where will we be without you to patch us back up?_

She shuts her blinds and sneaks food from the cafeteria in the middle of the night when there won't be anyone there to question her.

Her uncharacteristic retreat into solitude doesn't go without questioning. Her comrades from the medical wing find the time to drop by. Lena brings her a package of Swiss chocolate, saying she hopes a taste of home will help.

Angela smiles, thanks them all for coming, blames her absence on a different agent she failed to save from the one who has stolen her heart and soul. She laughs and says she's sure she'll be back to work soon enough. Nobody asks too many questions. She is a professional. She does not have many friends.

Angela sits in the dark with a bottle of something that tastes foul but does the trick. She cries alone in her bed and mourns a woman nobody knows she loved.

That's the crux of the problem, isn't it? Whatever she and Ana had was illicit, under-the-table (much like Angela herself often was), a secret, whether because Angela had nobody to tell or because she was too ashamed to tell anyone.

What would she even tell them now? That she misses being tied up and tormented? She can count on her fingers the times their relationship went beyond the physical, the times that their conversations were more than flirtation.

She misses the dream of it. Captain Amari, husky-laughed and eagle-eyed, with a steady arm around her shoulders. The naive imaginings of a childish woman who always placed romance far behind her career.

She didn't mind being used as long as she could pretend it was what she wanted.

The sixth day of her self-imposed exile, there's a brusque knock on her door. She doesn't know what to expect, except perhaps someone telling her there's an emergency. When she looks through the peephole and sees  _Gabriel Reyes_ on the other side, she's shocked enough to open the door.

"Good afternoon, sir," she manages. He waves the title off and looks down at her, brow furrowed.

"You've been hiding out in here, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's enough  _sir._ I'm not army anymore. God, it stinks. Have you been drinking?"

She looks at the ground, out of defiance or shame.

"Yes."

Angela's interactions with this man have been limited, to say the least. Ana often mentioned him, of course, and she can remember stitching up his arm once, but for the most part he isn't around base. Blackwatch operations always have him out and about.

He sighs.

"Look, it's none of my business, but I wanted to check on you while I was here." His tone has changed: less accusatory, more...gentle.

She says nothing. She didn't know what to expect when she saw him outside her door, but it definitely wasn't this. He's concerned about her?

"You miss Amari."

He says that sacred name so easily that it makes her flinch, which is really confession enough.

"Don't you?" There is something antagonistic in her tone, a challenge.

"'Course. But there's no time for grieving when we have a world to help."

So practical. It makes her want to scream. That should be her line, isn't it? She should be the one out there, still performing operations, taking everything in stride. Instead she's in here, falling apart.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I'll...go back to work tomorrow." She tries to keep her tone clipped and professional, but it breaks.

"That's not what I'm saying." He lifts a frustrated hand as if to run it through his hair, finds his beanie instead, and tugs on a curl peeking out. "Take as long as you need. Just wanted to see how you were doing. You're our best surgeon, and Ana cared about you."

_Ana cared about you._

It hits her like a blow. She sways in the doorway, because of the alcohol and not because of the alcohol. Her throat clenches. She is going to cry, she knows, and she would rather not do it in full view of anyone who happens to walk by.

"Thank you," she says mechanically, and closes the door in his face.

She sits on her bed and cries, muffling her tears in her own embrace. She entertains foolish fantasies of someone else holding her, stroking her hair, murmuring in her ear.

She couldn't save Ana. She has saved so many other people, and none of them even  _mattered,_ but she couldn't save Ana.


	5. Like Old Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-public sex, interruption

“Do you remember all the times we did this before?”

Ana sounds quite casual, maybe even wistful. Her tone is conversational. For her part, she seems unaffected by the situation. They might be discussing dinner plans.

Angela cannot say the same. Her breath is ragged and shallow. Her jaw is moving futilely against the sleek and polished wood of table, but there is nothing to bite down on. She settles for her lip and wishes for Ana’s fingers, for a  _gag,_ for something to occupy her mouth and stop these humiliating breaths and moans from escaping her. 

“I think you’ve gotten even more responsive. Does it still turn you on,  _liebling_? So wet for me here on the meeting table?”

Angela’s only answer is her panting.  _Yes, yes, of course–_ bitte,  _more, don’t stop._ She closes her eyes against the wood. When they began, it was cool. Now it’s as warm as her skin, offering no relief. The only anchor she has to cling to is the feeling of Ana warm and solid against her back, a hand steady on her hips and another eager between her thighs.

The post-mission debrief ended twenty minutes ago. Eighteen minutes ago, Winston finally exited the conference room, leaving the two of them alone. Sixteen minutes ago, Ana ordered Angela flat on the table with her arms above her head. Sixteen minutes ago, a talented hand slid under her lab coat and into her trousers, under her panties, learning old territory again.

Ana is not the only one afflicted by nostalgia. Angela trod this territory time and time again over the past decade, her own fingers invading her cunt and stroking her lips and flicking her clit, seeking for the  _spark_ that always accompanied Ana’s touch. She could never manage it, and her orgasms were always guilty things, wrung out to memories of a dead woman.

But now Ana is flesh and real against her back, and her skilled hand has pulled Angela apart as exquisitely and effortlessly as if it was ten years ago, as if Angela was still a wide-eyed girl, as if nothing has changed.

“How long would you like to go?” Ana asks. Her fingers twist inside Angela, curling and arching against her tender walls. Her thumb presses against her clit, offering some relief, but not enough. Never enough.

Answers flash through Angela’s mind as she bites even more resolutely down upon her lip. Thirty minutes. An hour. She remembers the time when Ana kept her on the edge for two hours. By the end she was incoherent, whimpering, thighs soaked and dignity gone. It sounds appealing now. They can start where they left off.

Angela is saved the trouble of answering when the door to the conference room opens. 

Her first instinct is to drop down and hide behind the table, but the doors are close enough that such an attempt would be useless. Instead she just remains slumped against the wood, a cornered animal playing dead.

“I–” 

Angela chances a glance upward before hiding her burning face again. The intruder is Hanzo. Certainly not the worst possible outcome, but she’s already had a hard time looking him squarely in the face before this. She doubts this will help matters.

“What can we do for you?” Ana is still casual, as at ease as ever. She pulls four fingers from Angela with a squelch and holds them to the doctor’s lips. Angela, even paralyzed by embarrassment, opens her mouth. She sucks on the digits and relearns the taste of her cunt and Ana’s skin, trying not to think about the watcher, trying to pretend it doesn’t make her wetter.

“McCree–forgot–his lighter.” Hanzo’s voice is tense, strangled. Angela imagines his face. She resists the urge to look upwards again. She licks Ana’s thumb clean and sucks on the pad.

“Oh, he’ll be missing that!” Then the hand withdraws and the warmth disappears from Angela’s back. She whimpers at the lack of contact, even when Ana’s clean hand briefly caresses the back of her neck. 

“There you are.”

“–Thank you.”

Angela can’t resist any longer. She looks up. And she manages to make eye contact with Hanzo, who looks almost like she feels, a deer caught in the headlights. But Hanzo is about to sprint, while Angela is already roadkill. She looks at him for what feels like an eternity, feeling every checkup, every attempt at professionality, at dignity, slipping away from her.

Then, with heat burning down her cheeks and stomach and ending at her clit, she hides her face against the table once more.

She hears the door close and hears Ana’s soft footsteps moving toward her once more. She feels the hand on her ponytail, yanking her head none-too-gently up. She feels the other hand slipping into her pants, her panties, once more, spreading her lips to conquer her again.

“Like a  _flood,”_ Ana says, sounding surprised. She clicks her tongue and then laughs. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

Angela moans, all defeat and lust, her nails working futilely against the wood polish.


	6. Impish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela trying to seduce Ana.

By the time the transport touched down, they were all exhausted. The weeks of the mission, dull reconnaissance and fact-gathering, had been bad enough; then there was the firefight, during which they’d all come within a hair’s breadth of death and somehow come away unscathed. They’d emerged victorious, but it hadn’t felt like it at the time.

Ana was yawning on the flight home, and she wasn’t the only one. A glance around the cabin showed a good two-thirds of the team dead asleep. Jack was sprawled across two seats with his coat askew and his mouth wide open. Ana chuckled at the sight and snapped a picture on her phone for later use.

When they landed, it was a parade of zombies coming off the transport. Ana was already fantasizing about her bunk, a more comfortable bed than she’d had since leaving on the mission. She slung her rifle over her shoulder and heaved her pack up, fully intending to sleep for a straight eighteen hours.

She was unprepared for her reception committee–namely, one over-eager blonde with doe eyes wide and wanting to please.

It had been a long time since she had seen Angela, admittedly. And as adorable as the surgeon was in her lab coat and glasses, that didn’t negate the fact that Ana was  _tired._ The kind of tired that permeated her bones and muscles and entire being, weighing her down. It made it hard to be excited even when Angela escorted her away from the transport and toward her room.

“You weren’t injured, were you?” she asked, gaze sweeping up and down Ana with her critical doctor’s eye.

Ana waved her off. “Just bumps and bruises.“

“Good. Good.” They walked together through the halls, Ana’s feet dragging, her things weighing upon her back. Angela’s heels (heels?) clicked on the floor. After a long few moments of silence, the doctor dared to lean in close, her breath brushing Ana’s ear.

“I missed you,” Angela breathed.

“Did you, now?” Ana raised one finger to gently prod Angela’s nose and stroke her lips. The pliant mouth opened under her touch, gentle tongue and teeth stroking her index finger, much to Ana’s amusement. How desperate was her little pet?

“I was waiting for you.”

“I’m afraid I’m too tired for this, habibti,” Ana said, punctuating her statement with a well-timed yawn.

Angela very nearly  _pouted._ It was an uncharacteristic expression, so childish, so  _bratty,_ that Ana couldn’t stop from chuckling at it. Perhaps she’d been too lenient in the past, too generous in giving Angela what she wanted, but her angel was nigh irresistible. 

Her door, finally, though now Ana was suspecting that she wasn’t in for as restful of a time as she’d anticipated.

“Can I sleep with you, at least?” Angela asked. Ana turned away from the door to look at her. Angela looked so young, even with her glasses on. She had her whole life ahead of her. And Ana was seized again by the discomforting thought that Angela was looking for something that she could not, would not, provide.

“Fine,” she acquiesced.

Her room was as she’d left it, smelling slightly stale. Ana opened the windows and dumped her things on a chair. A shower could wait for the next day, she reasoned, as she settled onto her bed.

“Are you coming?”

“I’d like to be,” Angela murmured. She stood at the foot of the bed, her fingers playing nervously around the collar of her lab coat before she began undoing the buttons.

Ana’s eyebrows rose, and rose, until there was nowhere left for them to go, and then she couldn’t stop the smile or the interested stirrings of lust between her thighs.

The last button fell open, revealing Angela, in all her glory, wearing nothing at all but lace panties and stockings under the coat. There was a blush on her cheeks, like this was the first time they’d done this. Her nipples were hard and dark, spots of rosy color against her pale skin.

“Please,” she implored, lifting one hand to play with her breasts. The  _minx,_ she knew how to play. “You don’t have to do anything at all. Just let me…service you.”

Ana rubbed her thighs surreptitiously together, fighting a losing battle. She brushed her dark hair behind her shoulders and sighed.

“Get my favorite strap-on.”

Angela couldn’t manage to disguise the victory and elation that flashed across her face, even as she bowed and hurried to obey. When she joined Ana on the bed, kneeling over her mistress, the eager look hadn’t faded from her eyes.

“I’ll have to get you back for your impudence sooner or later,” Ana mused, accepting the toy and languidly beginning the process of taking her own clothes off.

“I know,” Angela said, though she failed, again, to hide the hunger on her face.


	7. Good Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petplay.

“Show me what you want.”

Angela isn’t speaking, either because embarrassment has tied her tongue or because she’s thoroughly committed herself to their little game. The flush of humiliation has colored her cheeks pink and her ears red; Ana is sure that if she could see her other side, Angela would be blushing all down her neck and chest, right down to her hard little nipples.

“Come on,” Ana urges. She shifts on the bed. Her legs (clothed) have bracketed in Angela’s (bare), holding her in her lap. She pushes Angela’s bangs back from her sweaty forehead, a mocking gentleness. Her other hand twines the leash more securely about her palm and pulls.

The pressure on the collar, on her throat, garners a response. Angela starts, flashes a look over her shoulder at her cruel mistress. There are tears glinting under her eyelashes. Ana wipes them away, though she doesn’t lessen the pressure.

Slowly, dreamlike, Angela bends forward, shifting first to hands and knees and then, reluctantly, pressing her front into the sheets. Her hands move back. She brushes aside the tail, plug buried in her ass. Then her nails dig into the smooth creamy skin of her cheeks to spread them and show off her drooling cunt.

“There you go,” Ana croons. She keeps a steady hand on the leash, a steady pressure at Angela’s throat, just the hint of cutting off air. Her other hand she brings up to stroke between her loyal pet’s thighs. She’s unconcerned about the rub of the leather glove on Angela’s sensitive skin, unconcerned as her fingers thrust unceremoniously into her dripping entrance and flick her eager clit.

Angela whines into the sheets. Her head is turned on one cheek, desperately looking back at Ana, silently begging. And while it’s always fun to keep her begging, Ana can’t help spoiling her pet sometimes too.

“Good girl,” she purrs, angling her fingers just right to find the spot that will have Angela crying out for real.


	8. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ana, post-explosion.

She sees her in the news.

She sees all of them. And they all look old, older than the time between when she last saw them and now would account for. The kind of aging that happens overnight when you go to sleep among comrades who aren’t there the next morning.

Torbjörn looks angry. He always looked angry, she thinks, but now the lines are etched around his eyes, his mouth set in a snarl. 

Reinhardt looks betrayed. His eyes are a little wild, desperate. He glances around like he’s looking for his missing friends. How she wishes she could reach through the screen and touch him, comfort him, tell him hope is not lost. Things she would say if she herself believed them.

Angela. Angela. Unsmiling. She stares out at Ana with eyes cold like flint, answers reporters’ questions with short, clipped sentences. She looks just like she did the day Ana last saw her, the evening before that fateful mission. She looks the same, but she is different. She stares into the camera and she does not smile. Her accusing gaze pierces through the screen. Ana doesn’t know whether it’s in her guilty imagination or not.

_Could you have known? Could you have seen this coming? If you were here, would this have been the same?_

Of course, Angela doesn’t know that Ana could have been there. That guilt will be hers and hers alone for however many years are still allotted her.

She travels; she lies low; she tries to recover from the echo of an explosion that haunts her as surely as it haunts the other scattered remnants of Overwatch. She follows leads on Talon where she can find them; she takes odd jobs when she can’t. 

She watches Angela. News. Wikipedia. She catches snippets where she can. She looks into the face and wonders if she really would have done anything differently. It is only distance and nostalgia that make her miss it. There was nothing good about it, really, in the end.

But she looks into those cold eyes and thinks of the fragments of Angela’s heart and wishes that she could have taught her the permanence of death back when she had the chance.

“انا اسف اتركك لوحدك," she murmurs. She picks up her rifle and slings it over her shoulder. She pockets her temporary phone. 

She moves on.


	9. For a Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ana/Imp!Mercy, based on [this...exquisite art.](http://wankasweenies.tumblr.com/post/162911227528/tails-are-fun)

“Does this suit you?”

Ana pulls her hand upward, a small motion but enough to bury the tail deeper between Angela’s thighs. The muscle rubs firm and unrelenting between her lips, over her clit, a delicious friction that both alleviates and enhances the blissful ache gripping her.

“Yes— _yes—_ ”

If her hands were free, she would reach down and grab the appendage herself, fuck herself  _harder_ and  _faster_ to completion, but it’s better like this. Her wrists can only make futile little tugs against their cuffs, each movement echoed in the pull of the collar about her throat. Certainly she could free herself with a little blast of fire, but where would the fun be in  _that_?

As it is, she can only rock her hips back and forth and beg Ana for more with every gasp and moan and desperate word that falls from her wretched lips.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Ana is cruel, teasing her like this, pretending the answer isn’t obvious even as her breath washes over Angela’s sensitive earlobe and the imp lets out a broken cry. “I do want to show my appreciation, and I would be upset if you weren’t satisfied with our deal…”

“It’s good, it’s good,” Angela pants, and she feels Ana pull a little bit more. She can  _feel_ herself on her tail, the slick slide between her lips and the coarse tickle of her hair. It’s almost overwhelming. She flexes and twitches it as much as she can allow, tries to force it deeper and deeper into her wet heat. She’s going to come soon; she can feel it, and even as her hips mindlessly roll and she grinds her clit against her own tail, she’s sad at the thought of bidding farewell to the warm body pressed against her own searing hot skin.

“I’m so glad,” Ana coos. Her other hand cups one of Angela’s breasts, callused fingers stroking areola and nipple. Angela shudders and sighs. “I’ll admit I’m enjoying paying your price.”


	10. Bad Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More petplay, choking, nipple torture

Angela is languishing.

Ana’s office has no rug, no carpet, just tile. It is no longer cold underneath her, but every second that goes by intensifies the ache in her burdened knees. She cannot sit back or lie forward; each attempt to change her position results in a tug on the leash and the constriction of the choke collar about her throat.

She’s done it on purpose a handful of times, enjoying the sudden rush of adrenaline and the helpless lack of air, but her mistress ended her fun with a stern look downward and a tap on her desk drawer that threatened a form of punishment Angela would enjoy less.

But how can she be expected to behave when Ana won’t pay attention to her? It has easily been an hour now, an hour of kneeling naked on the office floor while Ana silently works. She won’t even put Angela to work between her thighs. Her only concession to her pet is the hand stroking her hair. And that attention, those gentle fingers, are divine, but after this long the sensation is not enough to make up for the pain of her knees.

She whines high in the back of her throat.

“Hush.”

An unpleasant tug on her ponytail.

That quiets Angela for a few more minutes. A few more minutes of pleasant scratches that send chills down her spine, of the tile floor hard and unyielding under her calves. But she is not patient here, not the way she can be when in surgery, and soon she is whining again.

“Bad girl.”

Ana looks away from her work at last. Her gaze is level and cold, disapproval evident there. She holds the stare as she lifts the end of the leash in her other hand and slowly draws it tighter.

It feels gentle at first, like a hand constricting her throat. Angela does not look away from her mistress, does not close her eyes, even as the collar steals her breath. There are tears clouding her vision. Her mouth opens, gaping, desperate. The pain intensifies. She needs to breathe. She  _needs air._ The seconds tick by. She is dependent on her mistress’s mercy, and this time it seems she won’t be getting off so easy.  

A hand signal or a word would release the pressure.  _Rot_ hovers at the edge of Angela’s mind and on the tip of her tongue. If she safewords, Ana will drop the leash. She will stroke her head and let her off her knees and hold her. There will be kisses and gentle words.

Angela does not say it.

“Will you behave?” Ana asks. She looks uninterested in the proceedings. After all, she is merely disciplining an unruly pet.

Angela nods desperately. The tears spill over. Her head is pounding.

“Hm.”

Ana lets the leash go slack.

Angela collapses, chest folding to her knees, and gasps. Ana allows the motion; there is no corrective jerk on the collar. Breath after breath fills her lungs. She cares only about the air, not about the drool and saltwater smeared on her face. An animal has no need for dignity.

A good half-minute later her breathing steadies. No longer does every inch of her scream with the desire for air. She forces herself to straighten and lifts her head to gaze adoringly up at Ana. No doubt she looks a bleary mess, but Ana smiles for her.

“Good girl.”

The compliment is better than anything else could be. Angela rubs her thighs together as a different sort of need arises between them. Ana is unlikely to let her touch herself, let alone come; she’s tried her mistress’s patience too much today.

“Maybe a bit more incentive?” Ana muses. She pulls a key from her pocket and opens the drawer. Angela does not have the angle to see inside it, but she knows its contents: lubricant and toys and torture devices. She waits on tenterhooks to see what her next trial will be.

The office lights glint off the heavy chain and clamps that Ana pulls out, and Angela cannot hold back a whimper. Her nipples are throbbing already.

Ana chuckles.

“Maybe if we’d started with these you would have been quieter.”

 _Quiet_ is probably not an adjective that will describe Angela once those cruel pincers are in place, but her noises of pain are a different thing from her attention-seeking whining. Ana revels in one, tries to train out the other.

Angela’s eyes are fixed on the chain as it swings in the light. So innocuous the clover clamps look. So delicate.

“Present for me,” Ana commands.

Angela obediently arches her back and brings her hands up to cup her breasts, offering them up for the pain. Ana takes her time to play with her nipples. She pinches and rolls and tugs them none-too-gently, but her heavy touch is nothing compared to what is to come.

Angela does not cry out when Ana closes the clamp’s jaws on her nipple. She squeezes her eyes closed and breathes, slow and deliberate, trying to ignore the bite. Looking away is a mistake; she is unprepared for the second, and it steals a cry from her lips.

“There you go,” Ana says. She is smiling when Angela opens her eyes. They watch together as she lets the chain slip from her fingers, and then gravity too is wreaking its torture on Angela’s breasts.

They burn. Angela desperately seeks about for something to distract herself, but there is just the throb. The pain is impossible to ignore, and it only intensifies as the seconds tick by. Surely the clamps will rip her nipples off altogether. How can something so small hurt so  _much_?

Ana tugs on the chain and a fresh wave of agony sweeps through Angela. She is tearing up again, forgetting to breathe. She can think only of the searing pain and of her mistress’s smile.

“How about five minutes?” Ana says, though it’s not really a question at all. Her smile only widens when a despairing moan escapes her beloved pet’s lips.


	11. Teach A Man to Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> have some smut; i'm dead inside

When Ana tells her to touch herself, she hesitates. She can’t help it, really; she desperately wants to please the woman before her, but her hand is hesitant. She glances up at Ana’s steady gaze and then away again. Usually the embarrassment titillates her, sends shudders down her spine, but her inexperience here is an exception.

“ _Show me, Engel – show me how you play with yourself.”_

Still, she does as she is bidden. Her fingers toy with the hem of her panties, pink and lacy, girlish. She strokes lower and lower until the cloth is wet under her fingers. It feels good, _yes,_ to press her thumb against her clit, but not good enough. Nothing like Ana’s touch. She glances up again and then away, guiltily. Her other hand she lifts to her breast. Her nipples are hard and dark under the lace.

Ana watches, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smile. She is fully clothed and sitting regally in the large desk chair. She could be in a meeting, but surely she enjoys commanding Angela to strip and present herself on the desk more. 

When  Angela pushes the cloth to the side and lets her fingers wander, i t’s still awkward. What does Ana want to see? Does she want to hear her moan? Angela wishes she would say something. Surely she knows by now that her pet will follow any directive with pleasure.

She pushes slick fingers into herself. The cloth is awkward and in the way, and usually Ana watching her feels good but not now, when she’s fumbling—

“Angela.”

She swallows, mouth dry.

“Yes?”

Ana frowns. “Are you all right?”

“Yes!” Perhaps she says it too quickly, overly defensive.

“Do you want to do something else?”

Angela slides her fingers out from under the cloth, surreptitiously wipes them on her skin. She knows she’s blushing, and she still can’t meet Ana’s eyes.

“I want you to touch me.” Her words come out too quickly. 

Ana leans forward and Angela’s heart beats faster, her skin warm and her pussy wet at even the insinuation of better things to come.  But then Ana doesn’t lift her hands, doesn’t touch her, and Angela is left frustrated and inwardly pouting.

“You don’t like masturbating?”

“I don’t...well, it’s just—” Angela gestures wordlessly around the office, knowing exactly how pathetic an answer that is.

Ana raises her eyebrows. “Just what? We both know you enjoy showing yourself off for me.”

Angela won’t begin to attempt to deny that.

“I’m just—” Why is it so hard to say? She’s frustrated at herself for her awkward fumbling, frustrated with Ana for making her say it. “You said to show you how I play with myself, but I don’t.”

There.

Ana is silent for a few seconds, thoughtful.

“You don’t touch yourself, _Engel_?”

“No.”

“Never made yourself come?”

“No,” she says again, still flustered. It feels like a betrayal somehow, and she feels that she should follow it up by saying that she thinks about Ana, that before they started doing _this_ her cunt would ache and she would try, but it was never quite right, always more frustrating than pleasurable. And isn’t it better to come at Ana’s behest, anyway, orgasms all for her?

Ana sighs, and then, miraculously, smiles.

“Come here.”

Angela slides off the desk and closes the distance between them. Ana’s calloused hands are warm and strong on her hipbones as she steers her around and then pulls her down onto the chair. Angela’s panties are not so thick that she can’t feel the rough, thick cloth of Ana’s trousers pressing against her. Just that touch and every inch of her seems a thousand times more sensitive; what is the use in touching herself when Ana is there?

“Angela,” Ana murmurs in her ear. She brushes her blonde hair back behind her shoulders and kisses her jaw. Angela squirms in place, needy, searching for friction on her clit. “I’m going to teach you how to make yourself feel good.”

It seems a wonderful idea when Ana’s teeth dig into her neck, when one of her hands slips under Angela’s bra and pinches at her nipple. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” Angela manages.

Ana’s free hand strokes between her legs and Angela pulls in a heavy, shuddering breath. The touch is too teasing and gone too soon, and no matter what Ana says, she knows that her own fingers will never be able to draw such a reaction.

“Put your hand over mine.”

Her voice is low and warm in Angela’s ears. Her eyes flutter shut. If the door wasn’t locked, anyone could walk in and she would be the first thing they saw, mostly naked and sitting on Ana’s lap. It would end badly, of course, but the fantasy is wonderful.

She laces their fingers together obediently.  Ana guides their hands together. Once more her fingers hover over Angela’s clothed pussy, and once more she grinds her hips down in search of relief. Then their hands move under the hem, and then Ana is touching her, touching her—

Angela sighs, melts into her mistress. 

“Very good,” Ana praises her. “Good girl, Angela. So wet for me. You’ll stain these pretty panties. We’re going to make you feel good.”

The hand cupping Angela’s breast squeezes. She flicks her nipple in time with a stroke over her clit and Angela moans, loud and wanton, and even if the door is locked she wonders how soundproof the office really is.

“That’s right. Moan for me.”

Ana’s hand is warm under hers. Angela can feel how her fingers are moving. She tries to mimic the motions as Ana gently traces her slit, spreads her lips, slips two fingers in and out of her, and all the while her thumb gently presses circles into Angela’s clit.

“Oh, Angela,” Ana breathes, and she presses kisses up and down Angela’s bare shoulder. “I want you to come apart like this, for me. And I want you to touch yourself tonight, and tomorrow night. Moan for me alone in your room like the pretty slut you are.”

She will, Angela thinks, through the daze of pleasure and building orgasm. She will touch herself with her fist pressed to her mouth and the thought of Ana enveloping her mind, if she is bidden, for every night to come.


	12. Blossom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uggghghghhhh tbh I fukcing hate summaries

The room isn’t that cold, Angela knows. Certainly colder for her than for Ana, considering her current state of undress. But she has no doubt that it’s something entirely different that’s made goosebumps rise all over her skin, that’s drawn her nipples so erect that they feel tight, almost painful.

The riding crop taps under her chin, and she obediently lifts her head. Her eyes meet Ana’s. The older woman wears a smile that looks more like a smirk.

Ana is fully clothed, not in her tactical gear but in a much dressier uniform she wears to UN functions. She looks exquisite in it, every inch the captain. All through the event Angela had not been able to take her eyes away. Champagne and an open bar certainly hadn’t helped. And then when they were back on base, the months of flirtation, of desperate longing, of touching herself alone in her room finally paid off.

She couldn’t be happier.

The flat tip of the crop prods her lips. Angela lets her jaw fall slack. The leather is cold on her tongue, but she wraps her lips around it and sucks. Ana’s smile broadens. The crop pulls back, gently traverses her neck. The dampness of her saliva enhances every sensation. Angela shivers in place.

It traces her collarbone and travels down. Her breath catches high and strangled in her throat. The tightness between her legs is unbearable. She will unravel the instant Ana touches her properly, she’s sure.

“What do we say?” her commander drawls.

“Please,” she responds immediately. She doesn’t know what she’s asking for, but she doesn’t care. She will enjoy it. She gave herself to Ana’s capable hands, after all, and she has no dream of terminating this blissful evening too soon.

The crop flicks hard across one breast and she cries out. The pain stings and her clit throbs and it’s good, so good, that her eyes brim with tears. When the second hit comes, the sound she makes is less of a cry and more of a moan.

“Thank you. Thank you,” she pants. The flat tip plays with her nipples and she runs her tongue across her teeth, arches her back to offer herself up. She is wet and certain that when Ana bids her to rise the tile floor will gleam with her slick where she has been kneeling for the past twenty minutes.

“Look at that,” Ana muses, seemingly to herself. A third strike catches Angela by surprise. “My virgin angel, quite the painslut.”

Angela squeezes her eyes closed, nods, clenches the muscles of her thighs and rolls her hips into thin air.

“You like that?”

Angela can _hear_ the smile in her voice.

The next hit catches her squarely on the nipple. Angela’s breasts are burning, her skin flushed red from the abuse. She wonders through a daze whether the marks will be there tomorrow, a week from now, a visible reminder that this is something that happened and not something she merely fantasized.

“Slut,” Ana says, and now her voice is cold, detached. The next hit is harder. And again: “Slut,” the whip, the pain. Angela doesn’t know whether it’s better to see the strikes coming or not, but leaving her eyes open makes all the sensations overwhelming, so she keeps them closed. She falls into a rhythm, relaxed by this sick sort of hypnotism, her need winding tighter and tighter.

“Make noise for me.” This is the only warning Angela gets before the crop catches her directly between the thighs. It is not a forceful hit, but it is too much. She forgets to breathe. Her overstimulated clit burns. Her heartbeat quickens and her stomach tenses.

“Ana, please—”

“ _Captain._ ” Another hit, harder than the first, and this time Angela does cry out. She grits her teeth, then, and slowly her brain catches up to her oversensitive body, and she manages to speak before the next strike.

“ _Rot! Rot._ ”

T he crop withdraws. Her eyes are still closed, her nerves still on edge. She takes a few shaking breaths to try to orient herself. 

T he next thing she feels are warm hands rubbing her shoulders and pulling her into an embrace. Ana is soft and smells of  rose attar and jasmine, and breathing becomes easier. The tension in her stomach uncoils. She feels warmer, too, and safe.

“I’m sorry, Angela—too much?”

“It hurt,” she mumbles, though that’s not exactly right.

“No more crop tonight,” Ana decides. “Would you rather we be done?”

Ang ela looks up at her. Ana’s face is serious now, but gentle, lacking the force of a few minutes ago. She’s so beautiful up close, and Angela can’t resist lifting her fingers to trace them along the Wadjet tattoo. Then she cups Ana’s cheek and leans in for a kiss.

Their tongues sliding together and Ana’s clothes rubbing against her hard nipples reawakens the ache between Angela’s thighs, and when she pulls back and a string of saliva connects their lips she shakes her head.

“Please touch me, Captain,” she pleads. A moment later Ana’s smile turns sharp again. She is the Shrike, after all, made to impale, and Angela is caught in her thorns.

She pulls Angela with her as she sits back on the bed. Her fingers stroke the insides of her thighs, where Angela’s arousal has already painted her wet and sticky. Angela shudders into the touch, lets her head drop onto Ana’s shoulder. But a moment later the fingers still.

“We don’t have to do this tonight, Angela. Are you sure this is what you want?” 

Her voice is serious, but all Angela hears is  _are you sure I am what you want_ ? and she cannot assent fast enough. Ana chuckles.

“Very well.”

Her fingers slide in so easily and smoothly that Angela can hardly feel them  until Ana crooks her hand and presses against Angela’s front wall.  She gasps and jerks her hips, her clit rubbing against Ana’s wris t. Ana’s other hand pulls at her abused nipples. It is too much, again, but this time in an entirely different way. Angela is almost embarrassed at how quickly she comes to pieces, but the pressure is undeniable. Ana’s fingers are pressing into the perfect spot and she feels  _full,_ and then she’s coming—

S he thinks for a moment she’s pissed herself, but then Ana is chuckling and holding up her soaking fingers, and the truth catches up and Angela flushes redder than she has all night.

“I’ve never done that before, I’ve never—”

A na stops her with a kiss, and her hand goes back to work on Angela’s clit.

“Let’s see if you can do it again, shall we?”


	13. Chapter 13

“Captain…”

She breathed that single word into the stuffy air of her office. It was late; there was nobody around to hear her but the incomplete mission writeup she was supposed to be finishing. But she was tired and in the quiet office her mind had easily been distracted, and her thoughts had inevitably come back to the woman they always orbited.

She’d had practice with Ana today. She could still feel the older woman’s body pressed against her back, her breath tickling her neck, her hands pressing Angela’s shoulders down.

_Relax, habibti._

She was grinding idly against her palm, not wanting to dirty her fingers. But Angela didn’t have to slide a hand into her panties to know she was wet. She’d been uncomfortably aroused all day, an inescapable side effect of spending time in Ana’s presence. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate. She could only replay her memories over and over again and try not to let her thoughts slide onward into fantasy.

She was in her office and this was inappropriate no matter how late it was. She was a professional. She was going to finish this report and return to her room, and perhaps _then_ she could relieve herself—

—Ana pressing her against the wall of the shooting range. Her lips exploring Angela’s neck. Her hand would slip under her waistband and discover the mess in her underwear, and then her shooting mentor would have to reprimand her for her distraction—

Who was she kidding? The mission report lay forgotten on the desk. She was a lost cause. Work could resume when she’d had her fill, when the inevitable guilt swallowed her again. But now there was just _friction_ and her memories diluted and perverted into something almost as enjoyable as the real thing.

Her lab coat was hanging on the back of her chair. She pulled it off and bundled it between her thighs. With her hands propping her up on the chair’s armrests, she could roll her hips against the cloth.

Her breath caught in her throat. It was almost too much on her tender clit, but she couldn’t dream of stopping. She ground down onto the cloth, feeling the wetness of her panties sticking to her skin.

She imagined it was Ana’s knee—no, her pistol, the deadly thing rutting between her thighs and leaving her damp, so damp. _“Are you learning your lesson?”_ her captain would ask, and she would nod, mouth open, almost drooling, grinding herself to completion on her own fucking gun.

Her hands were claws on the armrests. Her eyes were closed. It wouldn’t take her long at all, given how worked up she’d been all day. Just a few more movements of her hips, a few more imagined words murmured low into her ear—

But the sound of a throat clearing was not, she realized much too late, a figment of her imagination. She froze. Her eyes snapped open. When she saw who was standing before her, though, she wished she had kept them closed.

“C-Captain Amari,” she said, trying not to sound winded, trying not to let her thoughts run away from her.

“Angela,” Ana said, a smile playing around her lips. “I came to check on the status of that report before I turned in for the night. I suppose I should have knocked.”

Angela was mentally kicking herself for not even bothering to close the door, let alone lock it.

“It’s not done,” she managed. She gestured uselessly at the paper lying on her desk.

Ana took a step closer, and then another, and then another. She glanced down at the paper before looking up at Angela. That little almost-smile remained in place.

“Would you like help finishing?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed what you read here, and I hope you did, I'd like to recommend my longfic [Götze](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10922586), featuring more of this relationship in many, many more words.
> 
> Comments always appreciated!


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